فصل 39

کتاب: آن هنگام که نفس هوا می شود / فصل 40

فصل 39

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39

Six weeks after starting treatment, I was due for my first CT scan to measure the efficacy of the Tarceva. As I hopped out of the scanner, the CT tech looked at me. “Well, Doc,” he offered, “I’m not supposed to say this, but there’s a computer back there if you want to take a look.” I loaded up the images on the viewer, typing in my own name.

The acne was a reassuring sign. My strength had also improved, though I was still limited by back pain and fatigue. Sitting there, I reminded myself of what Emma had said: even a small amount of tumor growth, so long as it was small, would be considered a success. (My father, of course, had predicted that all the cancer would be gone. “Your scan will be clear, Pubby!” he’d declared, using my family nickname.) I repeated to myself that even small growth was good news, took a breath, and clicked. The images materialized on the screen. My lungs, speckled with innumerable tumors before, were clear except for a one-centimeter nodule in the right upper lobe. I could make out my spine beginning to heal. There had been a clear, dramatic reduction in tumor burden.

Relief washed over me.

My cancer was stable.

When we met Emma the next day she still refused to talk prognosis, but she said, “You’re well enough that we can meet every six weeks now. Next time we meet, we can start to talk about what your life might be like.” I could feel the chaos of the past months receding, a sense of a new order settling in. My contracted sense of the future began to relax.

A local meeting of former Stanford neurosurgery graduates was happening that weekend, and I looked forward to the chance to reconnect with my former self. Yet being there merely heightened the surreal contrast of what my life was now. I was surrounded by success and possibility and ambition, by peers and seniors whose lives were running along a trajectory that was no longer mine, whose bodies could still tolerate standing for a grueling eight-hour surgery. I felt trapped inside a reversed Christmas carol: Victoria was opening the happy present—grants, job offers, publications—I should be sharing. My senior peers were living the future that was no longer mine: early career awards, promotions, new houses.

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